


The Moratorium of Memory

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Did I mention angst, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-03-05 07:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 14,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18824215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: Greg has an accident and forgets his whole life with Mycroft





	1. Chapter 1

‘What are you going to do?’ the voice, soft, but sharp, posh without the strangled maw of the upper classes. 

‘We can’t….at this stage it’s entirely speculation….’

A hand closed around Greg’s, long, elegant fingers, cool to the touch.

‘Gregory?’ his name, spoken softly and with familiarity.

Greg blinked up at the stranger. Red hair, receding rapidly, a sharp nose, best described as hawk-like, the faintest freckles across his cheeks and eyes the colour of a summer storm.

Greg had no idea who he was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh buckle up for the angst-fest

Seventeen days.

Mycroft had visited three times a day for every one of those seventeen days. He’d sat beside Gregory as he slept, tentatively holding his hand. He’d spoken to him when he was awake, biting back the pain when the other man had no idea who he was.

‘It’s probably shock,’ John said, but even he couldn’t disguise the fact that he didn’t believe that.

Consultants, specialists, family, friends, all full of encouragement. Not one of them acknowledging the void that separated Gregory and Mycroft.

Sherlock came once. Gregory had smiled at him, called him Sunshine. Mycroft fought down his hurt at their easy interaction and he almost managed it until Sherlock, when he got up to leave, gripped Mycroft’s shoulder. The glance exchanged between the brothers would stay with Mycroft forever. Never had Sherlock shared sympathy like that, his expression so open and unguarded.

‘Why are you here?’

For a long moment Mycroft didn’t know what to say, and it took him even longer to lift his gaze to look at his husband.

‘Gregory….’

‘That’s not my name!’

Mycroft didn’t respond. He bit his lip and looked away, trying desperately to find any words that would matter.

‘They said we’re married,’ Gregory’s voice was gruff and angry

‘Yes.’

‘How? How can we be married? I don’t even like you!’

Mycroft resisted the urge to touch his wedding ring. Instead he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘We got married four years ago.’

Gregory shook his head, ‘How…? That doesn’t….’

Despite the situation Mycroft smiled, ‘You came to my office shouting about Sherlock. I….I waved you off and you punched me in the face.’

‘Oh, and then I married you?’ Gregory rolled his eyes and turned away.

‘No.’ Mycroft said quietly, ‘It took nearly a year before you would go to dinner with me. Point of fact it took my brother jumping off a roof for you to see me as anything other than ‘Sherlock’s brother’.’

Gregory turned to look at him again, those dark brown eyes filled with confusion.

‘I don’t….I don’t remember.’ he was struggling for breath and Mycroft had to fight the urge to reach out and hold him, ‘I hate you. You’re…you’re annoying and….and arrogant and…how are we….I don’t…..’ Gregory’s voice broke of with a sob and he turned away again, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see Mycroft


	3. Chapter 3

The specialists thought it was a good idea for Gregory to be surrounded by familiar things.

'It might help,' one overly-cheerful consultant had suggested, 'Being around his things. In his own home. Even if he doesn't actively remember it he might still instinctively...well, KNOW. Like...muscle memory.'

'How will that help?' Mycroft had been unimpressed with her opinion.

'Well, if he knows the place it might take some of the unease away and open up his memory a bit.'

Mycroft had glared at her for three minutes straight until she had tears in her eyes. But it had been three months, seven specialists and countless attempts, trials, treatments, and still Gregory remained the same. Mycroft still visited, but only when Gregory was asleep and wouldn't know he was there.

He told everyone who asked that Gregory was tired and by the time Mycroft made it there he was often already asleep.

He didn't tell anyone that Gregory had told him to stay away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg had sat in silence the entire car journey. He was not pleased about this idea. He'd wanted togo back to his flat, but it had been sold years ago. John and Sherlock had both offered to put him up, and a hotel was always an option, but in the end Greg had been given little say in the matter, it was Mayfair or nothing.

Mayfair. He resisted the urge to laugh. Fuck knew what he was doing there, and god alone knew what his mother thought of the whole thing. If she wasn't sitting opposite him in the posh black car right at that moment he would have thought it was a joke.

When the car stopped the driver opened the door and Greg's mother stepped out, almost immediately a smooth voice spoke.

'Huguette!'

'Myc, darling. You're too thin!' his mother replied, and Greg climbed out of the car just in time to see his mother gently kiss the cheek of Mycroft Holmes.

They both seemed to realise that Greg was watching them and immediately Mycroft looked uncomfortable. Good, thought Greg viciously.

His mother was already on her way inside, the driver carrying her bag, leaving Mycroft and Greg alone infront of the white townhouse.

'Gregory,' Mycroft nodded.

Greg didn't say anything, he just glared at the other man until eventually Mycroft spoke again.

'Shall we?'

The policeman tried not to be awed as he walked inside the building. High ceilings and panelled rooms full of heavy, expensive furniture that would not look out of place in a period drama. But there were other touches too that didn't fit at all, like the framed film posters and the bright cushions on the antique sofa. He resisted the urge to laugh bitterly. Yeah, he obviously lived here, who else would think it was okay to put Ikea cushions on a vintage Chesterfield. It was fucking embarrassing.

He was aware of Mycroft hovering uncertainly, but Greg refused to look at him.

'Which way?' he asked as if he were talking to a stranger.

Another of those pained pauses and then Mycroft led him down the hall.

'I don't know how much you remember-'

'Let's assume I don't remember shit.'

Mycroft's nod was sharp and Greg wished he could see the politician's face.

'Morning room,' a pale, absurdly elegant hand gestured, 'Drawing room, library, dining room, the door at the bottom goes to the kitchen and the stores, my study,' Mycroft led him towards the stairs.

From the direction of the kitchen came the scent of brewing coffee that showed his mother was familiar and comfortable to carry on.

At the top of the stairs there was a small mezzanine with more sofas, but these were huge, squishy ones in grey tones that looked like they were made to sink into with a beer and a good book. Perhaps he had more say in the décor after all. He'd know for sure when he saw the kitchen.

Mycroft led him past several bedrooms and, incredibly, a dressing room, and bathroom until he paused at a half open door, but only for a split second before pushing it open and stepping aside to let Greg through first.

Several things happened to Greg at once. The first was that he knew, knew completely and with utter certainty that this was his bedroom. He slept here. He woke up here. With...

He had to grip the door handle to steady himself as he tried to cling onto the small flash of memory, but it was already gone.

The second thing was the cat that had been sleeping in a path of sunlight at the end of the bed flicked it's tail lazily and blinked at him with it's yellow eyes.

For the first time in what felt like years, Greg smiled.

'Ronnie!'

He went straight to the cat and bent down to her, listening to her contented purrs as her ears were stroked gently.

'You brought her with you when you moved in,' Mycroft said behind him, his voice soft and almost sad.

Greg didn't say anything, he just kept stroking his cat. He'd got her years ago when of the custody sergeants found a box of kittens dumped out the back of a pub when he'd nipped off for a quick smoke. She was a scraggly, hairy little thing with a scornful expression, and she'd outlasted his wife and half a dozen girlfriends and boyfriends since.

And here she was, half asleep on a handmade bedspread, in a house that you'd have to be a lottery winner to afford and sporting a soft blue leather collar with her name on what looked like a real silver tag. Not bad for a cat who'd started live in a cardboard box.

Again that laugh threatened to take over. His cat was every bit as common as he was. And yet, here they both were, in this world that Greg didn't understand at all. He didn't realise he was crying until a neatly folded cotton handkerchief was pressed into his hand.

Mycroft paused again, hand almost reaching for Greg's shoulder, but he seemed to stop himself.

'I shall see if your mother requires assistance.'

And then Greg was left alone in the first place that had felt familiar since he woke up.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg hovered at the door, Ronnie clutched to his chest. His mother was on speaker to his father, and Anthea was making caustic asides while jabbing on her phone and cursing the WiFi.

'Oh, darling!' Huguette beamed, 'Do set that cat down!'

In seconds Ronnie was plucked from Greg's arms and deposited by a dish of left over casserole like the little traitor she was.

'Coffee?'

'...Um...'

'Yes. A nice coffee and then we'll catch up!'

His mother turned back to the coffee machine and completely missed the look on Antheas face.

'You're father was saying he'll be on the 10 am ferry tomorrow.'

'He doesn't need to come. And certainly not by ferry!'

'Well he can't fly with his heart.'

'What's wrong with his heart?'

Out of the corner of his eye Greg saw Anthea duck her head but most of his attention was focused on his mother who was wringing her hands and clearly struggling for words.

'Well it was that wee....thing.'

'What thing?'

'That....attack.'

'You mean a heart attack? When?'

'About three years ago. It's fine. That's when he gave up work and we took over the cottage from Grand-mère when she moved in with Pablo.'

'Who?'

'Darling you were at the wedding!'

Greg stared at the floor for a long moment, 'So...you and Papa live in Grand-mère's cottage because she's married someone called Pablo and Papa had a heart attack? I assume those incidents are not related.'

'Oh, don't be so dramatic!' his mother rolled her eyes as she fished out her phone, 'Look, he's not a serial killer or anything. He was a history teacher. You did a full background check on him. Oh, there's one of you and Mycie!' She turned the phone around to show him. And it was indeed one of him and Mycroft. He was in his best grey suit and Mycroft was in dark navy. But it was the look on both their faces that stopped Greg short. There had obviously been a joke, Greg was laughing out loud, head thrown back while Mycroft was giggling, head tucked down and turned away. Grey stared at it for a long moment.

'I always liked that one of you two,' Hugette said quietly, 'You looked very handsome together.'

'Mamma-'

'We much preferred Mycie to Caroline. Between you and me your father and I always thought she was a bit of a bitch.'

'And you....you didn't...mind?'

'Oh that you like men? Darling that was the worst kept secret in France. We were just glad you met someone nice....I know you don't remember, but you do love him.'

'Love him?' Greg's voice rose, 'How? Everything about him is repulsive!'

In the silence that followed the soft closing of a distant door was too loud. Anthea exchanged a glance with Hugette and then excused herself in the direction of the sound leaving Greg and his mother alone in the kitchen.

'Oh Grégoire!'


	6. Chapter 6

'Sir?' Anthea knocked quietly on the door to Mycroft's study. The only room in the house that was ever kept locked.

Mycroft was shutting the safe again and he indicated a stack of papers to her, 'I've signed those, can you get them filed.'

'Of course, but-'

She was cut off with one raised hand, 'It's not the worst thing I've ever been called.'

Anthea looked like she wanted to say more but she bit her lip and nodded, leaving him to work. It was only as she closed the door again that she realised he'd taken off his wedding ring.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Still working on the next chapter but just wanted to share the real life Ronnie with you all


	8. Chapter 8

Greg ignored his mother's hints about dinner until after 9pm, when he made his way down to the kitchen.

'Oh, Veronica!' a soft voice exclaimed a moment before the black and white cat shot through Greg's legs. Greg glanced up just in time to see the cat run away with a slice of bread in her mouth.

'Did you give my cat toast?' Greg asked, noting the startled jerk Mycroft gave before he spoke.

'She likes raspberry jam.'

'Oh Greg, don't fuss!' Huguette Lestrade strode into the kitchen and direct to the kettle where she paused, 'Am I interrupting?'

'No, Mamma.' 

There was a long silence and a glance shared between Mycroft and Greg's mother and then Mycroft was picking up hi briefcase.

'Are you working tonight, darling?' Huguette asked and looked disapointed when Mycroft nodded.

'I'll be late, so I'll stay at the club.'

'But-'

'Good night, Mamma. Gregory.'

In the silence following his departure, Ronnie padded back into the room and settled herself on the window seat where she proceeded to clean her paws.


	9. Chapter 9

It was 3am when Greg found the pans.

Wide awake and suddenly hungry he'd gone in search of a frying pan, eggs and toast his goal. He'd found them in the cupboard, on one side a set or orange Le Creuset and on the other an assortment of pots and pans, heavy granite frying pans, an iron stock pot, pasta pots with slatted lids and little copper milk pans, all stored carefully, clean and clearly used. There were still labels on two of the Le Creuset pans.

Greg lifted the smaller frying pan and set it on the hob and then stopped to stare at it. He'd bought it at a food festival in Montmartre two years after he joined the Met. He'd bought a crate of wine and two wheels of local cheese, both long gone.

He opened the cupboard again and lifted out each of the pots and pans he recognised. The iron stock pot had been his grandmere's and he remembered her boiling ham in it at Christmas. The little copper pots had been a gift from his sister when he first left home, 'It makes the milk taste better....'

Had he cooked for Mycroft with these pans? Had he fried him breakfast on a Sunday morning, or cooked elaborate stews or hams, had he made midweek pasta laden with cheese and olives and black pepper? Clearly no one used the Le Creuset set. Did Mycroft even cook, or did Greg? 

Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. He sat down at the kitchen table, the pots and pans still on the sideboard, and he just stared at them. Evidence that he lived there. But no memory of it.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft was gone for five days but Greg hadn't had a moment alone since he left. With the arrival of his father the fussing over him only increased, as did the portion sizes. Mycroft's mother and assistant flitted in and out of house, Anthea secreting herself in Mycroft's study, while Violet sought out Huguette and Greg had heard them cackling together several times in the kitchen, although they both maintained serious expressions and soft eyes when he was around.

With Mycroft gone he took to exploring the house more, spending time in rooms he was unfamiliar with, often with his cat cradled against his chest. Ronnie, unlike Greg, seemed most comfortable. After that first night she had made it clear that she slept in the main bedroom and gave Greg a narrow eyed look when he hesitated at the bedside.

His parents were staying in the spare room, so it was this or the sofa and he couldn't face his parents finding him asleep on the sofa, not to mention he wasn't sure his back would take it. But the bed was unexpected.

It was large and elegant while being simple. Something he might have chosen himself if he ever had twenty grand to spend on a bed. And he knew that's what it cost because he'd looked it up after finding the small, discrete label on the mattress. Maybe he had picked it. The thought flashed across his mind as he look in the expensive linen covered by the hand stitched bedspread. It looked like the quilt he used to have as a child. Was that why it had been picked. There were black and white cat hairs stuck to it and some of the stitching was coming loose at the bottom. It was clearly well used.

He moved to the wardrobes where it was immediately aparent which side was Mycroft's. There were the bespoke suits and coats Greg recognised. Custom made shirts in a variety of soft hues, those waistcoats that should have looked ridiculous. But they were interspersed with cashmere jumpers and dark, casual trousers that Mycroft clearly hadn't picked for himself. Had Greg bought them for him?

Greg's own side was full of functional suits for work, the sort of suits he could pick up for £50 in the M&S sale and had a machine wash setting. Things he didn't mind wearing to crime scenes or get covered in blood or worse. But there were also, at the far side, suits of a much better quality, a tuxedo he didn't recognise and a dove grey suit with a fucking waistcoat. Turning away he pulled open drawers. He'd always folded his shirts and here they were. Dress shirts, mostly white a couple of ties in a coil and then t shirts, some decades old that he recognised immediately.

Band teeshirts, tatty jeans and cheat suits. Maybe he hadn't become a posh wanker after all.

Here was, finally, proof that he really did live here. His clothes, his cats, and as he would find out later that night, his pans.

But there were no photos anywhere. Not of him or Mycroft anyway. There were photos of Ronnie, tasteful prints of landscapes. But none of the usual photos people displayed of their lives together. 

He found them five days later.


	11. Chapter 11

'Tuesday at three?' Greg asked the receptionist when she called to schedule his next doctor's appointment, 'Yes, hang on 'til I get a pen...'

A search of the kitchen drawers was proving fruitless. Who the hell didn't have a pen secreted somewhere in their kitchen. The drawers there were full of utensils and there wasn't a single drawer full of random crap like every other house had.

He made to walk to the library but Mycroft's study door was open so he ducked in there. Anthea must have forgotten to lock it when she left that morning. Not that there was much in there to see, it wasn't like Mycroft Holmes would keep state secrets laying around on his desk.

Greg had only glanced in there before, but he was aware that the receptionist was waiting so he ignored his own curiosity and tried the top drawer, which he found locked. The bottom one was open so he pulled it open and stopped still.

'Can...can I call you back?'

#

There were hundreds of them. Stacks of glossy photos showing holidays and functions, meals and parties, pictures of Greg with his cat, wedding photos that had slight damage to the edges, clearly having been recently removed from a frame. 

He spread them out over the rug, sitting among them, picking up each one and searching for some sort of recognition in the images. He didn't know how long he'd been there, hours at least.

'What are you doing?' Mycroft's voice was sharp from the doorway and when Greg looked up at him the man was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

'I needed a pen....the door was open and....' Greg waved his hands across the photos, 'Why were they in a drawer?'

Mycroft's eyes were darting around the room making sure nothing else had been disturbed, when eventually they settled on Greg Mycroft had reschooled his face into impassiveness.

'I thought it would upset you.'

Greg bit his lip, 'There's...years here.'

'Yes.' Mycroft hadn't moved from the door.

'I don't remember any of this.'

The red haired man just nodded.

'What...what are we doing? I haven't remembered anything in months, and this is....' he was going to say torture but something in Mycroft's expression stopped him, 'I've been a dick to you. But I don't remember and of this. I just remember how it was before.'

'When we hated each other?'

'No! Well...you know what I mean.'

Mycroft nodded again.

'Maybe this was a bad idea,' Greg said, 'We should maybe...call it a day....'

Mycroft didn't say anything for a long moment, but then he blinked and there was that curt nod again.

'I shall stay at my club until I can secure another residence. You should stay here. I'll...' there was just the tiniest break in his voice, 'I'll have the paperwork drawn up and sent over.'

And then he was gone, leaving Greg sitting alone on the floor.

The divorce papers arrived by courier the following afternoon.


	12. Chapter 12

Being alone in the big house didn't stop feeling wrong, even with his parents staying and Mycroft's mother popping in almost daily.

'Oh, do come for lunch with us, Gregory darling,' Mycroft's mother Violet tried to persuade him, Siger is coming up from Sussex for the day, and we're just going across the square.'

Greg's parents had already tried to get him to go, but he wasn't up for leaving the house at all, even though he felt weird being in it.

Eventually they left and a moment later a black car pulled up outside. Greg hadn't seen Mycroft for a week now and he braced himself. But it was only Anthea who exited the car. She approached the house with two hessian bags which she set on the floor of the hall.

'Veronica's food,' she explained.

'Oh,' Greg reached for his wallet, 'What do I owe-'

Anthea rolled her eyes, 'It's all on account, sir. I just need you to sign for it.'

She held out a tablet with a stylus and Greg scribbled his name. 

'And if it's okay, Mr Holmes has asked me to collect some papers from his office.'

Greg stood aside and indicated for her to go on ahead. As the sound of her heels disapeared down the hall, Greg picked up the bags and took them through to the kitchen.

'Fucking hell,' he whistled as he unpacked two large bags of Orijin cat food which he knew for a fact sold for nearly fifty quid each. He turned to look at Ronnie who was lounging on the window seat and blinked lazily at him, 'You've developed some expensive tastes.'

Anthea returned with an armful of folders, 'Is there anything you need before I go, sir?'

'No...actually yeah. Can you tell me why there are about six hundred Creme Eggs and enough Pot Noodles to see through the apocalypse?'

Anthea gave one of her mysterious smiles, 'I believe you were rather worried about Brexit so Mr Holmes ordered you some supplies to ease your mind.'

'Was he drunk?'

'I couldn't possibly say, sir. But he also ordered you two wheels of parmesan and six thousand double A batteries.'

To give the woman her dues, she looked completely unfazed by this and her expression did not flicker at all. Clearly this was not the oddest thing she heard at work.

'Well,' Greg said weakly, 'I suppose that covers all the bases.'

After she had left Greg made himself a coffee and scrolled through the football results on his phone. But for the rest of the day every time he thought about the uptight Mycroft Holmes ordering thousands of Pot Noodles as a nice gesture made him laugh. 

#

He'd known that he would see Mycroft at some stage, Huguette had mentioned that he was staying at 'the summer house' but that was all Greg knew, so it was a bit of a surprise to climb the stairs at 221B and here the politicians smooth voice inside.

'Hello, Greg!' John smiled at him and then looked uncertain, but Greg wasn't paying him any attention, instead he was looking at Mycroft, who was doing everything he could to pretend Greg wasn't in the room. He looked tired. Thinner even than the last time Greg had seen him. He was wearing a pale green three piece suit that made his hair look redder and his eyes more blue. With his sharp features and immaculate posture he was very striking and Greg was finding it hard to look away from him, he seemed to completely fill the room. Is this what other people felt when they looked at Mycroft Holmes?

'Don't worry about Mycroft, he's just leaving!' Sherlock said savagely.

Mycroft sighed, 'Do think about what I asked, and if you reconsider-'

'I won't.'

Mycroft picked up his coat from where it had been draped over the back of a chair and headed for the door, inclining his head at John.

'Doctor Watson.'

He didn't acknowledge Greg at all, which was like an unexpected punch in the gut for the policeman. And that was odd because it wasn't the first time Mycroft Holmes had ignored his presence so why...

'Well he was a bit of a dick,' John looked furious.

Greg didn't respond, he was still trying to make sense of why he felt so strange.

'What's wrong with him?' John went on.

It was Sherlock who answered, 'They're getting a divorce.'


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft sat in the back of his car and tried to control his breathing. The privacy screen was up thank God, allowing him a moment to regain his composure.

He'd been trying to persuade Sherlock to...to...damn he couldn't even remember now. The moment Gregory burst through the door every other thought flew from his mind.

Mycroft couldn't look at him, worried if he did that he'd say or do something that would embarrass them both. But more than that he knew if he looked at Gregory it would hurt. More than he could handle.

He'd been hurting for months and it had grown into a dull ache he could almost live with, and then Gregory came home and it sharpened until last week, the day Gregory found the photos, it had turned into a burning pain throughout his whole body. It had only intensified since.

The man had brought sunlight in with him, his wide smile and his eyes bright as if any second he would burst out laughing. Dressed casually in old jeans and a jumper, did he even know he was wearing Mycroft's scarf around his neck? Probably not. His smell had filled the room – coffee and that cheap shampoo he had always insisted on buying, and a faint trace of cat that clung to his clothes. Mycroft knew if he stood close enough he would be able to smell the salt and sweet tang of his skin.

But all Mycroft could do was freeze, staring away from him, his heart hammering in his chest and feeling trapped, Gregory was between him and the door, he would have to walk past him to leave. And although Mycroft was not looking at him, he could feel Gregory's entire focus was on him.

As he left he tried to say goodbye but the word wouldn't come and so he kept walking, and as he passed his soon to be ex husband he thought he saw a tiny flash of hurt in those dark brown eyes, but that was obviously wishful thinking.

He'd been to his solicitors to set things in order. He'd arranged the divorce petition to come from Gregory against Mycroft, he'd filled it in for him, taking all the blame. Unreasonable behaviour, a list of his flaws and actions which had been quite long, all Gregory had to do was sign.

'This is most unusual Mycroft,' Uncle Rudy had said when Mycroft, 'Usually Greg would have to write this himself.'

'He doesn't remember any of it.' Mycroft had stared out the window as the papers were proof read.

'And the rest of these?' Rudy had asked, indicating the other documents Mycroft had him draft.

'Those too.'

His uncle had watched him over the rim of his glasses for a long time before he sighed, 'Very well, you know best.'

#

Mycroft had signed the Mayfair house over to Gregory in it's entirety. He'd spoken to the bank and had his name taken off the joint account and arranged for new cards and pin numbers for all of Gregory's cards. Gregory's car was already in his name, it had been a gift from Mycroft when his old car had finally gone to the scrap yard in the sky, which, if truth be told, was something of a relief for Mycroft.

He knew that Gregory had no idea how much money was in their accounts. He had always said the thought of it made him feel sick and grubby, like he was being bought.

Mycroft, on the other hand, could think of nothing he loved spending money on more than his husband, except perhaps Veronica. He had been reluctant to have her in the house at first, but it quickly became apparent that she and Gregory came as a package and so Mycroft had given in. Over the years he had grown tolerant of her, bordering on fondness. The little, abandoned cat now wanted for nothing. Her food was the best money could buy, her collar had been handmade in the softest leather by the same man who made Mycroft's shoes, and had cost as much too, and if her bed had been hand stitched and her toys came from Harrods then that was between Mycroft and Veronica and Mycroft had considered it the price he paid to her for allowing him to share Gregory with her.

There was something about her slanted yellow eyes that suggested she knew exactly what she was worth.

Sleeping at his club had lost it's appeal after two nights and so he had taken himself off to the summer house in Surrey, glad of it's distance and solitude, but hating it for those very same reasons. Not that he had gotten much sleep at all.

In the back of the sleek car he closed his eyes against his own pain, trying to console himself with the knowledge that this split would make Gregory happy, which was all he really wanted.


	14. Chapter 14

Greg found his parents in the elegant sitting room. His father was reading the crossword clues out loud to his mother, who was sitting among piles of crocheted squared. Greg paused for a moment, unwilling to do anything that would ruin the scene of domesticity, but he’d been putting it off for a week already and he didn’t want them to carry on living in false hope.

‘Mamma,’ he began softly, ‘Papa?’

His father peered up at him over the top of his glasses and immediately knew something was wrong. But his mother finished the corner she was working on before giving their son her full attention.

‘Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?’ she asked, lowering her wool to her knees.

Ah, speaking French, Greg thought grimly, so they could tell it was bad because all the difficult conversations in their family took place in their native tongue. As a child Greg had always known he was in trouble by which language he was greeted in.

‘Mycroft et moi,’ he began slowly, ‘…Mycroft et moi allons divorcer.’

At this statement he expected more of a reaction than his parents just glancing across the room at each other. Neither of them seemed surprised, but neither seemed inclined to say anything. Eventually his father pushed his glasses back up his nose.

‘Well,’ he said.

Unexpectedly Greg’s anger rose. After all the worry of the last week and the strange encounter with Mycroft that afternoon, not to mention the enormity of what Greg was saying, he had expected something more….well, _more._

But his parents were just wearing slightly sad expressions, as if they were mildly disappointed with something he had done.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ his mother asked, already gathering up her wool and turning her attention back to her crochet again.

Greg stared open mouthed at her and fought for words to respond, but nothing would come, so after a moment and feeling wrong footed some how, Greg shrugged and left the room again.

#

Every time he say down to try and go through the paperwork Mycroft had sent over Greg got overwhelmed by it and kept pushing it away in irritation. But that wasn’t going to get it done.

What’s the rush? A treacherous voice in his head asked.

So I can get away from that bloody man! Greg told himself savagely and forced his attention back to the papers in front of him.

Mycroft had prepared a petition on behalf of Greg. A petition which really tore Mycroft to shreds and listed every negative thing Greg had ever thought or said about the eldest Holmes and all listed in neat bullet points.

That was…difficult reading.

What was becoming increasingly obvious was that the Greg Lestrade who felt those things about Mycroft and the Greg Lestrade who had lived with him here in this house were two different people.

For the thousandth time Greg tried to work out how a man like Mycroft Holmes had convinced Greg Lestrade , a man who could barely stand the sight of him, to care about him. To love him.

And it was clear from the photos he’d found hidden that Greg had indeed loved him. His mind kept going back to that one photograph of Greg and Mycroft at the’r wedding where Greg was leaning in close and speaking to Mycroft who was smiling shyly at the ground.

What was I saying to him? Greg had kept going over and over that question in his mind.

What was I saying to make him smile like that?

But there was another question that Greg had been trying to avoid thinking about.

What had Mycroft done to make Greg look at him like that?

He couldn’t help but think back to the ridiculous number of photos from his first wedding, all staged with military precision and ruthlessly selected and displayed in special albums Caroline had considered her magnum opus at the time. Greg had really believed he was marrying the love of his life and every picture captured his deliriously happy grin.

But not in a single one of them was he looking at Caroline like he was looking at Mycroft in that single picture.

Why?

What had happened to change Greg from a man who wanted to punch that smug face into a man who looked at Mycroft Holmes as if he was the sun?

#

Mycroft had signed the house over to Greg.

The policeman’s hand shook as he read the pages. There was no explanation, just a brief note from Mycroft’s solicitors.

The house and everything in it now belonged to Greg, the only things Mycroft had requested were the contents of his study, the photographs Greg had found in his desk and his piano.

Greg hadn’t even considered that anyone played the piano in the library, let alone that it would be the cold and upright Mycroft Holmes. But then again, Mycroft was graceful and effortless, much like his younger brother, but while Sherlock skated and danced through his life, Mycroft seemed to glide. It was only Mycroft’s eyes that hinted at the storm inside. Dark and grey-blue, piercing through everything in their path. They saw everything.

Without knowing why, Greg found himself settling down on the piano stool and lifting the lid off the keys.

He was not a musical man, and evidently that had not changed in the years he’d lost.

The pedals were slightly too far away to be comfortable, the stool clearly placed at a distance suited to someone with longer legs than Greg’s/

He ran his fingers lightly over the smooth keys, too soft to make a sound and tried to imagine Mycroft sitting there, his long fingers moving over the keys, a piece played from memory, learned years ago, or something new and complex, the score propped on the stand more for show than necessity.

Had Greg sat in this room and listened? Had the sound filtered through the house, a soft accompaniment on a winter evening? Or did Mycroft guard his moments at the piano, not sharing them, only playing when alone?

He kept asking himself why he should care. This wasn’t his life. But he would then think, that was exactly why he SHOULD care. This had been his life. Even if he couldn’t remember it, even if he didn’t know why, this had been the life he had chosen.

He had chosen Mycroft Holmes.

Now he just wanted to know why.


	15. Chapter 15

Greg had not seen or heard from Mycroft in two weeks when he was woken late at night by a sound of footsteps and muffled voices.

He was casting his eye around the dark room for anything that would make a good weapon when he heard a voice he recognised.

'Go on, I'll inform the Inspector.'

Anthea!

Greg let out the breath he was holding although it would be a while yet before his heart beat returned to normal.

There was the softest of knocks on the door and then Anthea's face appeared looking far too palre.

'I'm sorry sir,' she began, 'I didn't know where else to take him.

#

Mycroft, it transpired, had been in Tehran for ten days and, according to Anthea, had barely slept more than an hour at a time.

'He get's so consumed by work,' she said with a shrug, 'You know what he's like.'

Greg didn't point out that he actually didn't know what Mycroft was like, it didn't seem the time.

'He didn't crash until today, but the idiot had already taken his sleeping tablets before we got off the plan. There's roadworks and no way we'll make it Sussex tonight and I haven't had a chance to organise a new safe house in the city. I'd have taken him to a hotel but he can barely stand and I'm sure I don't need to explain how Mycroft Holmes being carried into a hotel in the middle of the night might be potentially compromising to his career, not to mention national security.'

Greg was too tired and frankly too thrown to argue. Anthea gave him a sympathetic smile.

'He's in the guest room. He'll sleep it off. But I'll be in the office if you need anything.'

'You're going back to work?'

Anthea shrugged her coat on again, 'I slept on the plane. I'll be fine. Will you...?' she stopped but Greg could see the anguish in her expression.

'I'll keep an eye on him.'

'Thank you,' her shoulders sagged in relief, 'I'm sorry.' she repeated, 'If I could have taken him anywhere else then-'

'It's fine,' Greg cut her off and was surprised that he meant it.

Eventually Anthea was leaving again, a Tupperware box containing sandwiches and some left over pasta that Greg had insisted on packing up for her.

'There's really no need, sir. I'll-'

'Eat your bodyweight in vending machine KitKats.' Greg finished for her.

Anthea smiled, 'You know me too well.'

She tucked the box under her arm and closed the door behind her. Greg checked the lock and then leaned against the closed door. His gaze went to the stairs. Up there, in a room down the hall from his, Mycroft Holmes was sleeping off his latest work trip.

Taking a deep breath Greg turned the light off and started to climb the stairs.

#

There was a trail of clothes leading towards the guest room. It looked like Mycroft had just stripped off on the way, his expensive suit dropped on the floor like a rag. The door to the guest room was open and Greg peered in just to check that Mycroft was okay and stopped still, his mouth suddenly dry.

Mycroft was asleep face down across the bed, laying on top of the covers, his long legs hanging over the side. He was breathing deeply. And completely naked.

It took Greg a second to move, to tear his eyes away. But he was unable to stop staring. Whatever he had expected to be underneath all those sharp suits it was not the body that he was seeing. He's always thought of Mycroft as thin, even scrawny. But he was far from it. Slim yes, but surprisingly muscular, a runners body, Greg's mind supplied. And pale, so incredibly pale apart from the freckles. So many freckles, starting at his shoulders and lightly petering out the further down his back until his...Greg swallowed.

He'd never found another man's arse attractive before. Truth is he'd never really looked at another man's arse at all. But suddenly he couldn't stop staring at Mycroft's.

Swiftly he stepped back and pulled the door closed behind him.

Now too awake to ever get back to sleep he walked back down the hall in a daze, stepping over Mycroft's scattered clothes and making his way to the kitchen where Ronnie looked unimpressed to be woken by the light.

He mechanically went through the motion of making coffee and helping himself to one of the hundreds of Pot Noodles in the pantry. As he waited for the noodles to soften he thought back to the reason there were so many of them in the house and he pulled his laptop towards him. Time to find out what this Brexit thing was.

 


	16. Chapter 16

'What the fuck is this?' Gregory demanded wide eyed and dishevelled.

'What?' Mycroft blinked trying to process the startled look his husband was wearing.

'Brexit!' Gregory thrust his laptop towards Mycroft, 'You're not really going to let this happen are you? They're going to deport me!'

'They're not. You have leave to remain.'

'What? But I'm French and-'

'And you work in a high service industry and....and you're married to an official who....' Mycroft trailed off, biting his lip.

And for the first time Greg looked at the man he'd apparently married.

The Mycroft Holmes he'd known was umbrellas and three piece suits. But this Mycroft was unshaven in a soft blue jumper. He didn't look like he ruled the country, he looked like he cooked bacon for his cat and listened to Radio 4.

'They're not...gonna send me back?'

Mycroft shook his head.

'Even when we're...divorced?'

'They won't send you back.'

'Are you-'

'I'm sure!'

Greg bit his lower lip and stared at the window for a long time, 'I um...I haven't seen you with a beard before.'

Mycroft ducked his head, 'When you're in an enemy country you don't necessarily want a stranger holding a blade at your throat.'

Greg stared for a long moment, 'I like it. Suits you.'

For a split second Greg wasn't sure what Mycroft's response would be, 'Veronica doesn't like it,' he said slowly.

'Her loss,' Greg replied.


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft spent the morning locked away in his study doing God knew what, and if Greg hadn’t spoken to him that morning he would have had no idea that Mycroft was even there. He couldn’t stop his gaze flickering towards the closed door though, and when he made himself a coffee he took the chance and made a second one.

His soft knock was answered with, ‘Yes?’

Pushing open the door, Greg held the coffee up, ‘Thought you might want this, you’ve been working all morning.’

Mycroft looked thrown by the gesture, ‘Thank you,’ he said, blinking slightly too fast, ‘You didn’t have to go to that-‘

‘I was making one for myself anyway.’ Greg shrugged.

He set the cup down and made to leave again, unsure what else to say. He spotted Ronnie in the doorway at the same time as Mycroft did.

‘Ah!’ Mycroft warned, raising one long finger. 

Ronnie stopped moving immediately, took a step back until she was across the threshold again and sat down. 

‘She knows she’s not allowed in here,’ Mycroft said by way of explanation.

‘You taught her to do that?’

‘It took some effort,’ Mycroft admitted, ‘But the alternative was removing a cat from my keyboard every time I tried to work.’

Greg couldn’t help his smile, ‘Trust you to find a solution that means everyone else bends to your needs.’

‘Of course,’ Mycroft said with a mock sneer, but there was an amusement in his eyes that Greg was unused to seeing, and combined with the jumper and never-before-seen beard it the Mycroft sitting at the desk was not the one he recognised at all. It should have felt unsettling, but it wasn’t.

‘Gregory?’ Mycroft caught him staring.

Greg gave himself a mental shake, ‘Sorry, just…’ he gestured a hand towards Mycroft, ‘Still getting used to this.’

Mycroft ducked his chin slightly and picked up his coffee, ‘It will be back to business as usual tomorrow,’ he assured and for some reason Greg felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Before he could say anything else Ronnie mewed from her station in the doorway and Greg huffed out a laugh.

‘Alright your highness, I’m coming.’ He smiled at Mycroft again just before he closed the door, ‘I can’t believe you taught her that,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘Any other tricks?’

‘You shall have to find out,’ Mycroft challenged in a tone that was almost teasing.

Greg closed the door behind him, biting his lip against the smile.

#

An hour later Greg was waiting on the kettle boiling when Mycroft appeared in the kitchen, making him jump.

‘I didn’t hear you.’

‘It’s a skill,’ Mycroft reached for the coffee machine and poured himself another one, he nodded towards Ronnie who was sniffing suspiciously at the dry food in her bowl, ‘Have you discovered her repertoire yet?’

Greg shook his head. He had tried everything from ‘sit’ to ‘play dead’ right through to imitating Mycroft’s tone and voice but Ronnie had just stared at him in disinterest and then gone to lie in her radiator bed.

Mycroft smirked and for some reason that annoyed Greg. But not for long. Mycroft lifted his finger again.

‘Veronica,’ he said, ‘Engage stealth mode.’

Ronnie had turned to look at him at the sound of his voice and now she had dropped down low on her stomach, stalking her way forward the same way she did when there was a spider she was intent on catching. When she reached Mycroft she lay down and rolled over and he gave her stomach a light stroke.

Greg just stared.

‘That is amazing!’ he breathed, and he looked across at Mycroft who coloured slightly at the praise.

‘Does she do anything else?’

Mycroft suddenly smiled and shouted, ‘Ambush!’

Immediately Ronnie leapt straight up in the air, all four legs rigidly straight, the same way she did when she got a fright. Greg couldn’t see for tears of laughter.

‘That is brilliant!’

‘Sherlock didn’t think so.’ Mycroft smirked.

Greg couldn’t stop laughing to ask the question, but Mycroft seemed to know.

‘Veronica was on the bookcase in the library and having a cat leap out at head height can be somewhat frightening, even if you are Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Fuck me! That is brilliant!’ Greg repeated, panting for breath.

Mycroft’s smile slid away and he lifted his cup again, nodding to Greg as he made to return to his study.

‘Hey,’ Greg called to stop him, ‘I was gonna have lunch if you want one,’ and he held up the Pot Noodle.

Mycroft looked at him as if Greg had two heads.

‘Too common for you?’ Greg teased.

‘Gregory, I have had worse things in my mouth, but I draw the line at Pot Noodle.’ Mycroft said with one raised eyebrow, and then he left, leaving Greg alone to play over Mycroft’s words again.

Worse things….oh!

Greg was glad Mycroft was gone so he couldn’t see Greg’s blush.


	18. Chapter 18

Greg stirred the chicken sauce again before turning to the fridge.

 

'Maawooom.'

 

Ronnie was sitting in the middle of the floor, her slightly alien eyes trained on Greg.

 

'You've been fed!' Greg frowned at her and shooed her out of the kitchen. He was mincing some garlic when the door opened again and Mycroft came in, Ronnie at his feet.

 

'She's been fed,' Greg said as Mycroft reached for her dish. The redhead stopped and glared down at the cat.

 

'That's dirty politics, Veronica.' Mycroft shook his head and sighed.

 

'Do you usually talk to her like that?'

 

'When necessary.'

 

Greg found himself smiling and he turned back to the stove so Mycroft wouldn't see.

 

'I'm making marsala, if you want to stay for dinner?'

 

When Mycroft didn't respond, Greg turned to face him, 'Hmm?'

 

'I....um....thank you.'

 

Greg smiled, 'Good, you can set the table. There's wine in the fridge.'

 

Mycroft didn't move for a long moment, so much so that Greg started to doubt himself, and then Mycroft nodded and opened the cupboard to retrieve the plates.

 

#

 

_'Why Ronnie?'_

 

_Greg laughed into his beer, 'I thought she was a boy. Dimmock has Reggie.'_

 

_'Ronnie and Reggie,' Mycroft smirked, 'Subtle.'_

 

_'Oh yeah, and I bet all your pets had sophisticated names.'_

 

_'I had a rabbit once.'_

 

_'And what was it called?'_

 

_'….Constantinople.'_

 

_Greg leaned back, 'what?'_

 

_'It was the longest word I knew. I was seven and thought I was being smart.'_

 

#

 

'Gregory?' Mycroft was at his side, brow creased in concern.

 

'You had a rabbit called Con-'

 

'-stantinople. Yes. You...remembered?'

 

'I remember we talked about it.'

 

Mycroft looked uncertain, 'Perhaps I shouldn;'t-'

 

'Please stay!' Greg cut him off. He didn't know why but he desperately wanted Mycroft to stay a while longer. It had been nice knowing he was in the house all day, even if their interactions had been minimal.

 

'I....yes. Thank you.' Mycroft nodded again but he was still wary and for some reason Greg hated to see him like that.

 

As Mycroft passed him with the plates Greg reached out and touched his arm, 'I made canelés for after. They're your favourite, right?' he asked, the words out of his mouth before he realised.

 

The plates clutched tightly, Mycroft nodded.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our boys have dinner and make....progress

‘They're your favourite, right?'

Where the hell had that come from? Greg was glad that Mycroft turned sharply towards the table, allowing himself a moment to recompose so the politician wouldn’t see the look of confusion on Greg’s face as he tried to work out what had made him say that. It hadn’t felt like a lie. But he had no reason to say it. But…  
But it had come from somewhere, and he wasn’t entirely sure where. 

By the time he turned followed Mycroft to the table with the heavy dish the other man had opened the wine and poured them both a generous glass.

‘I know it’s supposed to be made with pasta…’ Greg apologised as he set the dish down.

‘I prefer it with rice.’ Mycroft said.

‘Me too.’ Greg smiled.

The food was served in silence and just as he picked up his fork, Mycroft looked up at Greg.

‘Thank you for this. It was very kind of you.’

‘My pleasure. I like to cook.’

To his credit Mycroft didn’t say ‘I know’ which Greg almost expected him to, instead the politician looked slightly embarrassed and it took Greg a moment to realise why, and when he did he had to take a mouthful of wine to cover his smile.

‘Did I do much of the cooking? When we were together I mean.’

‘Every other night.’

‘You cooked the alternate days then?’

Mycroft snorted in a hugely offended way which Greg found amusing, ‘Of course not. When it was my turn we either went out or ordered in.’

This time Greg did allow himself to laugh, and Mycroft turned his attention back to his plate before speaking again.

‘It was rather necessary. You told me that if I ever touched your pans again mealtimes would become most unpleasant for me.’

‘No ice cream?’

The slight quirk of Mycroft’s eyebrow was enough to tell him he was right. It was the sort of stupid joke that he would have made with Caroline only to have her snap something petty at him, but it seemed that Mycroft had played along with it given his reaction.

After a few more minutes of silence, which was surprisingly easy, Greg ventured, ‘My doctor says I should be able to go back to work.’

Mycroft looked up at him with obvious interest and a concern that he wasn’t able to hide quickly enough.

‘Is that wise?’

‘Desk duties only,’ Greg pulled a face and speared a piece of chicken with a bit more viciousness than he intended.

‘That’s probably wise. It’s been a long recovery. How has your physiotherapy been going?’

Greg shrugged, ‘So-so. I mean, I’m never playing football again, but, on the plus side, I get out of doing door to door’s, so….’

‘Swing’s and roundabout’s indeed.’ Mycroft smiled, ‘I must confess I do rather envy you a desk job.’

That got Greg’s attention, ‘You do much fieldwork?’

‘More than I admit to and much more than I care for,’ Mycroft’s mouth twisted with displeasure.

‘What sort of fieldwork? Am I allowed to ask that?’

Mycroft considered for a moment, ‘Much the same as yours, just in different cities and the criminals tend to better dressed.’

‘Well that’s the best description of international politics I have ever heard,’ Greg admitted, and then, not really sure he wanted to know the answer, ‘Is it dangerous.’

Ah!

Greg studied the suddenly wary look on Mycroft’s face and he could tell the politician didn’t want to answer that question, which meant that it WAS, but he didn’t want Greg to know that. Mycroft chewed his chicken very carefully before he answered.

‘Like any job of its nature, there are moments that are less…safe than others.’

‘Which means?’

‘Injuries can happen. It’s a risk of the job. Just like yours.’

‘And when was the last time you were….’injured’?’ the quotation marks could almost be seen in the air between them.

‘It’s been a while,’ Mycroft assured him, ‘And even then it was rather minor.’

‘How minor?’

‘Minor.’ Was all Mycroft said.

‘You know I could just ask Anthea?’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft sighed, ‘And no doubt she would tell you. Traitor.’ He added under his breath, making Greg laugh.

‘You know,’ Greg said as he finished the last forkful of rice, ‘If anyone had ever told me that I’d be sitting here having dinner with you like this, I’d have thought they were mad.’

Mycroft’s cheeks coloured slightly and he dropped his gaze again, and Greg suddenly realised what he had said.

‘No idea what I’d have thought if they’d told me everything else that happened between us.’

‘Gregory-‘

‘Sorry. I’m just…it’s just strange. I mean, I remember how I felt about you before, so this should be…this should be hell, but it’s not. It’s…it’s actually nice. You’re not how I thought you were.’

Across the table Mycroft bit his lip, the distress clear in his face, and Greg felt bad.

‘Mycroft, I…’

But Mycroft’s expression changed immediately and completely with a practiced ease that he’d clearly mastered at work, and which made Greg feel suddenly sad for him.

‘I believe you promised canelés?’ he said.

Greg smiled broadly and reached for Mycroft’s empty plate, pleased that the other man had eaten everything Greg had made for him.

‘I certainly did. I’ll put them out if you wanna open another bottle of wine.’

As Greg dished out the desserts he wondered if a second bottle of wine was really a good idea, the first few glasses were already going to his head. But a part of him was actually enjoying himself.

As he carried the canelés to the table Mycroft was taking a sip of wine.

‘By the way,’ Greg said, setting the plates down, ‘Why did we have so many AA batteries?’

The way Mycroft’s wine sprayed across the table was a sight that would stay with Greg for the rest of his life.


	20. Chapter 20

‘Mawooom.’

Ronnie jumped of the sofa and darted straight for the hall, tail in the air and eyes bright. 

Mycroft was here.

‘You want coffee?’ Greg called out.

The footsteps in the hall paused for a second, ‘Thank you, please.’

Greg reached for another cup, glad he’d been making the fancy coffee. Mycroft always pulled a face   
when Greg offered him the coffee he usually drank, which was thick enough to stand a spoon in and strong enough to keep anyone awake for days.

Mycroft was still using his office at the house while he was waiting for another house to be approved and fitted out with the various security required as part of Mycroft’s job. He was quiet and unobtrusive, even though the house had once been his and it must have been very strange for him to be there at all. But he never showed that, was very polite, always enquired about Greg’s day and occasionally offered a suggestion on a case Greg was working on.

And Ronnie adored him.

It was very sweet to watch her jump of whatever chair she was occupying and dart off to greet Mycroft.

And, although it still surprised Greg, Mycroft seemed genuinely fond of her too and always took time to spend a few minutes with her before he left.

It had been almost a month since that first dinner and Greg always offered him coffee or tea, which Mycroft accepted. In truth Greg had stopped offering and simply made it and took it in to Mycroft. 

And they’d had dinner again. 

Greg’s shifts meant he wasn’t always home for dinner, and sometimes Mycroft had other commitments which meant he had to decline Greg’s offer to stay. But they’d had six more dinners together in the last month which had been…nice. Much to Greg’s surprise.

This Mycroft wasn’t the Mycroft he remembered. This Mycroft was actually funny in a very dry way that Greg was only really beginning to understand. He’d never taken the time to realise that before, he’d always just assumed Mycroft was a sarcastic and patronising bastard, which he could be, to be fair.

‘What are you smiling about?’ he hadn’t heard Mycroft come into the kitchen, but the other man was standing just behind him, Ronnie in his arms.

‘Just thinking that the reason people don’t see how funny you are is because you are far smarter than they are and don’t get it.’

‘I believe that’s why think I’m just being…a dick.’

Greg bit his lip, ‘I said that, didn’t I?’

Mycroft nodded but he didn’t look upset, ‘It was actually quite a revelation and explained much of my childhood.’

‘You had it tough, didn’t you?’ Greg asked as he handed Mycroft a cup of coffee.

‘It was what it was. But I admit to a certain degree it was not pleasant.’

They had talked a bit about Mycroft and Sherlock’s childhood over the last few weeks, and Greg had come to understand so much more about why the two men where the way they were. But he knew that Mycroft didn’t like to talk about it too much, so Greg changed the subject.

‘Can you stay this evening? I got some lovely duck and was going to make a cassoulet if you fancy it?’

Mycroft’s expression flickered for a second but then he smiled and nodded, ‘Thank you, I will.’

Greg beamed at him, ‘Good. I’ve been thinking about it all week and I….Oh my god!’ Greg almost dropped his cup.

‘Gregory?’ Mycroft stepped forward in alarm.

‘I’ve made it here, in this kitchen. We had a fight because you worked late when you promised to be home early.’ The memory flooded back and Greg gasped. He turned to look at Mycroft, grinning, not caring what the memory had been, only that he remembered it.

But Mycroft had gone very pale and looked distressed.

‘Mycroft? Are you okay?’

Mycroft nodded, ‘Yes. Just…’

‘I don’t care if it was a bad memory,’ Greg tried to explain, unable to stop his smile, ‘It’s remembering.’

Mycroft nodded again.

‘Has that been happening much?’

‘Here and there I’ll remember something, or sometimes I’ll just know something that I’m really sure I didn’t before, except obviously I did. And that’s good, right?’

‘Yes.’ Mycroft had started to smile, although it was a little sad and Greg knew this must be hard for him too and suddenly he really wanted to  cheer Mycroft up.

‘Tell you what, I’ll start the cassoulet while you’re working and then do you fancy opening a couple of bottles of wine and getting really shitfaced?’

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and slightly pursed his lips before answering, ‘How could I refuse such an eloquently put invitation?’

#

‘How did I not know this was here?’ Greg was a little unsteady on his feet as he followed Mycroft through the cool stone basement, his wine glass still in his hand.

‘Did you not wonder where the door in the back kitchen went?’

‘I thought it was a cupboard. By the way, what exactly is a back kitchen for?’

‘Well when the house was first built it’s purpose was for washing up and preparing some food, usually vegetables.’

‘But we keep a washing machine in there.’

‘Yes.’

‘So now I have learned two things. What a back kitchen is for and that we had a wine cellar I knew nothing about.’

‘It’s been quite an educational day for you, hasn’t it.’

The cellar was about half the size of the floor above it and lined with thousands of bottles of wine in special racks, and to one side there were locked cages that contained lots of bottles of what Greg was sure were very expensive spirits.

‘Ah, this will complement the cheesecake rather well,’ Mycroft had stopped at selected a bottle that looked to Greg like all the other bottles, but he had a feeling Mycroft knew what he was talking abut when it came to wine.

‘I will defer to you on this.’

‘Try it, incase you don’t like it, I’m not sure either of us should be climbing those stairs more than necessary.’ As he was talking he opened the bottle and poured a large measure into Greg’s now empty glass, which Greg dutifully tried.

‘Are you always this right?’ 

‘Usually.’

‘This is amazing. You should bring two bottles. So went have to come down again when we’re more drunk.’

‘Very sensible attitude to health and safety.’ Mycroft nodded and lifted another bottle.

‘And we’ll need the second bottle because I wanna ask you about the box I found at the back of the wardrobe.’

Greg watched with great delight as Mycroft’s face first registered shock and then embarrassment that he tried to hide by taking a long swig direct from the bottle, and then it was Greg’s turn to be shocked.

‘Mycroft Holmes what would you mother say? About either your manners or the shocking amount of sex toys we seem to have owned.’

‘Dear god.’ Mycroft took another drink and suddenly Greg was pressing him against the wine rack behind him, crowding close into his personal space, and before Mycroft had time to realise what was happening Greg was kissing him.

#

Greg could taste the wine on Mycroft’s lips, and after initially tensing he felt Mycroft’s body relax against his. Mycroft was still holding the two wine bottles uselessly at their sides and Greg still had his wine glass in his, but his free hand was on Mycroft’s hip without Greg even realising he’d moved.  
This was not an awkward first kiss. Greg had kissed enough times in his life to recognise that this was the kiss of two people who knew each other’s bodies well and were comfortable with each other, knowing what they liked and what worked for them.

They broke for breath and briefly rested their foreheads together as they each contemplated what had just happened.

‘Sorry…I…’ Greg couldn’t seem to catch his breath and his heart was racing.

‘Gregory, we should stop. I should go. Thank…thank you for dinner.’ Mycroft slid away from him and headed for the stairs out of the cellar leaving Greg standing there trying to make sense of what just happened.

#

Mycroft left the two bottles sitting on a side table in the hall and was reaching for his coat when suddenly he was pulled around and pulled towards Greg, who rubbed his nose along Mycroft's jaw.

‘I don’t want to stop,’ he whispered.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have a kick in the feels. I'm not even sorry.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Greg thought as he tongue slid against Mycroft’s, just as easy as it had been in the wine cellar, but this time there was none of the cautiousness with which he had kissed Mycroft then. This time the kiss was heated, Greg allowing himself to push for more, somehow knowing that Mycroft would let him.

And he was right.

Mycroft kissed him back, one hand somehow ending up wound in Greg’s hair, pulling him closer, the other was on Greg’s hip, firm and possessive. As Greg’s hand slid up Mycroft’s side, Mycroft nipped none too gently at Greg’s lower lip, and the sound that elicited from Greg was one the policeman was sure he had never in his life made before, but he could feel Mycroft smile against Greg’s return kiss and he realised that the other man had known exactly the response he would get. Bastard.

Greg pushed him back against the wall, kissing him hard, and pressing their bodies together until he could feel the unmistakable swell of Mycroft’s erection against his hip. Even as Greg realised what it was he felt Mycroft’s face grow hot, and now wasn’t that adorable? It was Greg’s turn to smile. He tried to hide it by turning his attention to Mycroft’s neck, and Christ how had he not realised what a long neck the man had?

He kissed his way down the pale skin to the point where it met his collar, and there he paused for a second to just breathe I the scent of Mycroft’s skin. It was spicy and citrusy and salty and nothing like any of Greg’s female partners had smelled, and Greg suddenly wanted to taste it, so he ran his tongue lightly up the side of Mycroft’s neck, revelling in the way Mycroft tilted his head back, exposing more of that pale skin.

He reached the soft skin below Mycroft’s ear and he kissed there gently, allowing himself a glimpse at the other man, who had his eyes closed and his lips parted. 

I’m doing that to him.

Greg pulled back slightly to look at Mycroft, who opened his eyes and looked back, and as Greg stared into those storm coloured eyes he was surprised by what he found there. He was used to Mycroft’s penetrating gaze, but this was something else entirely. Mycroft’s pupils were wide with want, his eyes full of a fierceness that was thrilling.

Those eyes held his for a long moment, neither of them moving, barely breathing. It was almost…a challenge.

And then hand were pulling at shirts to get at the skin underneath. Greg ran his hand up Mycroft’s side, the skin beneath his hand surprising warm.

He didn’t remember reaching for Mycroft’s belt, only knowing that he made the move a fraction of a second before Mycroft did. All he remembered was the NEED to touch Mycroft, to feel him. NOW.

Pushing Mycroft’s trousers down just enough to allowing him access, Greg didn’t even hesitate before sliding his hand into Mycroft’s underwear and closing his fingers around Mycroft’s length, enjoying the moan that it drew out of the other man. Slowly he stroked upwards and his fingertips brushed against a cool stud.

Fuck! Greg wasn’t even certain the sound he was making were human anymore. All he was aware of was the feel of Mycroft in his hands, Mycroft’s hands on him, and the taste of Mycroft’s mouth as they kissed. 

And he wanted it.

He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. He wanted to hear the sounds Mycroft made, memorise them. He wanted to see what Mycroft looked like when he came, and he wanted to know that he had been the one to make him do it.

Somewhere, outside of the universe they were inhabiting, Greg dimly became aware of a repetitive bleeping. He initially ignored it, and then when Mycroft pulled away slightly he groaned in protest and pulled Mycroft back, but the politician had become suddenly tense in Greg’s arms, removing his hand from Greg’s length and pulled back slightly.

Greg immediately stopped, suddenly hyperaware of the change in Mycroft and the sudden change in the mood. Gone was the fierceness and instead Mycroft’s expression had returned to normal, and it was only in that very second, now that he had seen what else could be there, did Greg realise that the emotion he usually saw in Mycroft’s eyes was not disinterest, but a deep, deep sadness. He knew that because he was looking at it now.

Mycroft dropped his gaze, already tucking his shirt back in and buckling his belt.

‘Mycroft?’

‘It’s my driver.’ Mycroft’s voice was sharp and to the point, almost, almost covering the underlying emotions there, the pain and the…the panic.

Mycroft needed to get away. Greg knew that without having to be told, and he stepped back, allowing the other man space, for which Mycroft breathed out, grateful. He didn’t meet Greg’s eye as he reached for his jacket once again. This time he pulled it on without Greg’s interference and then he was at the door.

‘I’m sorry, Gregory. I have to go.’

Greg just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, because he knew if he did it would be to plead with Mycroft to stay. But that would have been for his own selfish reasons. Mycroft was…overwhelmed, that much was clear, and Greg felt a wave of guilt that he had caused the other man to feel that way.

‘Goodnight Gregory.’

‘Night, Myc.’

But the door was already closed before Greg had finished speaking and he had no idea if the other man had heard him.


	22. Chapter 22

Greg was rereading a report for the fourth time, not taking in a word of it and seriously wondering if he could get away with just signing it anyway. Thank god they had progressed to types copies, back when he’d first joined everything had been handwritten and most days Greg could barely decipher his own handwriting never mind having to trawl through Dimmock’s scribbles.

After another five minutes he gave up and carried his mug across the office to the coffee machine, he was almost there when he heard John Watson’s voice from somewhere behind him.

‘For god sake, Sherlock, slow down!’

Greg groaned. He had a massive hangover and was doing his best not to think about what had happened the night before, the last thing he wanted to deal with was a Sherlock in full flight.

‘Hamilton was killed by his brother.’ Sherlock said without preamble.

‘Their father has already confessed, Sherlock. That case is closed.’

‘Their father is lying. He’s got stage four stomach cancer and only has three months left. He’ll be dead before the court case is even over. He was covering for his younger son.’

Greg just stared at Sherlock, feeling that familiar sinking feeling that tended to overcome him on occasions when Sherlock dropped a bombshell that meant a lot of paperwork for Greg.

‘Alright, sunshine, if….IF you’re right…’

‘Of course I’m right.’

‘Then how did he do it?’

‘Would you like me to do your entire job for you?’

‘It would save me a lot of aggro.’

‘I’m not here to-‘

‘Sherlock, just tell him so we can go home.’ John sounded weary and Greg wondered how long Sherlock had him running across London.

‘Fine. There was a glass bowl missing from the sideboard.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There were bits of pot pourri under the sofa that he missed when he was cleaning up. There was no other sign of it in the room, so therefore the dish it was in was missing.’

Greg closed his eyes, ‘And where is it now?’

Sherlock shrugged, ‘The river.’

‘Oh for fuck….’ Greg sighed, ‘Right. Thanks.’ And then he shouted, ‘Sal, I need you to bring in the youngest Harrison brother.’

‘Boss?’

‘Just do it, Sal.’

Donovan nodded and turned sharply away.

‘Anything else you want to tell me to ruin my day?’

‘You had sex last night.’

Greg was vaguely aware of John’s mouth dropping open, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed critically as he inspected Greg’s expression, waiting on Greg to say something. But before Greg could speak, Sherlock’s eyes flew open and his face twisted in disgust.

‘No!’ he spat.

Pointing his finger in warning, Greg’s voice was low, ‘Don’t!’

‘No!’ Sherlock repeated.

‘Sherlock,’ Greg hissed, ‘I am warning you!’

Sherlock backed off a step and with one last sneer he wheeled around and strode out of the office, his ridiculous coat billowing out behind him, leaving John Watson staring at Greg.

‘If you have something to say then just say it.’ Greg didn’t even look at him.

John shrugged, ‘Just seems really soon. After Mycroft and all….’

This time Greg did look at him and watched as realisation washed over John.

‘Oh!’

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Greg said, ‘It wasn’t really sex, it was….well.’

‘Bloody hell, Greg.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘So what’s…?’

‘Look, can we talk about it later? The Lemon after I finish here?’

John just nodded and left to catch up with Sherlock. Greg filled his mug and then headed back to his office to organise a dive team.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day?

‘Well, to be honest I’m not surprised,’ John took a long drink of his pint, ‘Surprised it took you this long.’

Greg shook his head, ‘Everyone keeps saying that but….’

‘But you just remember Mycroft the Dickhead?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And now you’re getting to know him again and….’

‘Yeah.’

John blew out a breath and looked a little lost for words, ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Mycroft is…he’s a very attractive man.’

Greg tried to hide his smile, ‘John Watson are you telling me that you fancy my husband?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ John went slightly pink, ‘And I’m over it now. He wasn’t interested and I never stood a bloody chance when you came on the scene all single.’

Well now, Greg thought, wasn’t that interesting. John had a thing for Mycroft. John ‘Not Gay’ Watson. Was that part of the reason Sherlock was so possessive over John and such an arse when it came to his brother? It would certainly explain a lot.

‘Besides, I don’t think I have the stamina to keep up with him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s just say that I know more about your sex life than I really want to.’

‘Active was it?’

‘Wonder why Sherlock doesn’t break into your house anymore?’

‘Actually, yeah, I had noticed that.’

‘Well let’s just say that walking in on your brother giving your mate a blow job was not the ideal way for him to find out about you two.’

‘Ouch.’

‘He says he deleted it but I’m not sure even he could wipe that sight from his mind.’

‘God.’

John just laughed into his pint, taking delight in Greg’s mortification.

‘Do you know,’ Greg said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, ‘He has his cock pierced.’

‘Yeah,’ John shifted uncomfortably, ‘You’ve mentioned that before.’

‘I have?’

John nodded, ‘You were quite excited about it.’

Since when had Greg become someone who was excited about things like that?

‘Greg, what’s going on between you now?’

‘No fucking idea, to be honest.’

For a few moments last night Greg had thought he’d known, but then Mycroft couldn’t get out of there fast enough and Greg hadn’t been able to sum up the courage to message him.

‘Are you still getting divorced?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about-?’

‘John, I don’t know!’

John held up his hands to placate Greg, ‘Alright, alright. I’ll not ask.’

For a long time they sat in silence, sipping at their beer, lost in their own thoughts.

‘John?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I….I really like him.’


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go......

_‘I really like him.’_

Greg was still running those words through his head several days later as he answered the phone at work.

‘Sir,’ Donovan sounded furious, ‘You’d better send someone to collect him before I either arrest him or kill him.’

Greg sighed, ‘Sal, I’m literally about to leave. Can you not send him home with Gregson?’

‘Not if you want him to arrive in one piece.’

‘Fine. Give me ten minutes and I’ll pick him up on my way home.’

He was just putting on his coat and turning out the light when John came storming across the main office.

‘Is he here?’

‘Nice to see you too, John.’

‘Is here he or not?

‘I’m going to collect him now. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Drive fast. He locked me in the bathroom and took off with my gun.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ Greg kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

#

When they arrived Sherlock was arguing with the forensics team and Benji looked like she was about to cry. But Sherlock instantly looked sheepish when he spotted John climbing out of the car.

‘Here,’ Greg threw John his keys, ‘Take him home. There’s someone I want to talk to.’

John followed Greg’s nod towards the sleek black car idling further down the road and gave a sympathetic tilt of his head before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

A thought occurred to Greg and he shouted after the doctor, ‘And don’t let him drive!’

Greg steeled himself with a few deep breaths and headed to the black car before it could move. The driver saw him coming and made to get out but Greg waved him to stop.

‘Take us to the house,’ he instructed the driver as he opened the door and climbed in beside a surprised Mycroft before he had a chance to think about what he was doing.

‘Gregory, what do you think you are doing?’

‘I think it’s time we had a talk. Don’t you?’

#

Greg didn’t pause when the car pulled up outside. He let himself out before the driver had a chance to and went straight to the front door, not looking back, just trusting that Mycroft was going to follow him, because he didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t.

They hadn’t said a word to each other the whole way there, Greg staring out his window and Mycroft staring straight ahead. It was the most awkward they had been with each other for weeks and it was awful. Greg had watched Mycroft’s reflection in the window, watched the way the other man was blinking just slightly too quickly, his hands gripping his laptop just a little too tightly. He was nervous, Greg realised, he was just better at hiding it than Greg, who spent the whole journey tapping his fingers on his knee and trying to stop his leg jiggling.

‘Shall I wait, sir?’ he heard the driver ask and he shouted over his shoulder before Mycroft could answer him.

‘You can go home, David,’ Greg shouted and let himself inside.

Mycroft was just a few steps behind him. And furious.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ he demanded, dropping his coat and laptop bag on the floor, something he would never do if he was in a normal mood.

Greg responded by reaching past Mycroft and slamming the door, pushing Mycroft back against it.

‘Like I said, we need to talk.’

‘About?’

‘This!’ Greg hissed, ‘What is this?’

Mycroft dropped his gaze first, but there was nowhere for him to go, pinned between Greg and the door. Greg’s heart was hammering in his chest and he couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough.

‘The other night?’ Greg said, but Mycroft didn’t respond, ‘Mycroft?’ He asked, and then softer, ‘Myc?’

Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at Greg again, the name obviously meaning something to him. Just like it had felt right for Greg to say it. Was that what he called Mycroft? If it was he’d have been the only one who was, even the politician’s own mother got corrected when she tried to shorten it.

‘Gregory...’ he began but couldn’t seem to say anything else, and seeing the man so unguarded was heartbreaking.

‘Did it mean anything to you?’

Mycroft didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

‘Because it did for me. It made me realise a few things.’

‘L-like what?’ the politician’s voice cracked slightly.

‘That you…you are smart,’ Greg leaned in closer so he was almost brushing against Mycroft’s cheek, ‘And you’re funny….and you’re sexy as hell.’ Greg swallowed, terrified, but he had to say it. If he didn’t do it now he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to, he might not get a chance again. He was so close now he could feel Mycroft’s heart beating, and it was every bit as fast as his, the politician’s breath coming in short gasps. Greg’s lips were brushing against Mycroft’s earlobe then, ‘How are you doing this?’

‘What?’ Mycroft’s response was barely more than a breath against Greg’s shoulder.

‘How are you making me fall for you?’

Mycroft turned to look at Greg, those intense eyes of his creased with emotion and scrutinising Greg’s face for any sign that he the policeman wasn’t being honest. Greg waited, letting him look, letting him read everything on Greg’s face, and he watched the change, that very second that Mycroft believed him, the surprise there, the hope.

Christ, how hard had this whole thing been for Mycroft?

Greg reached up and stroked Mycroft’s face, letting his fingers slide around to the back of Greg’s neck, and then he closed the space between them and kissed the politician so softly, the sound Mycroft made in response somewhere between a sob and moan, and Greg closed his arms around him, pulling him into and embrace, kissing along his jawline and down that long neck until he buried his face into the crook of Mycroft’s neck. He breathed in the scent of the other man, letting his breathing steady enough to whisper against Mycroft’s pale skin.

‘Take me to bed.’


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, ya'll wanted this from Mycroft's POV so here goes.....

_Mycroft watched his brother from the safety of the car and breathed a sigh of relief when John Watson arrived._

 

_'We can go home now, David,' he said, already reaching for his phone to contact the office, but then the door was yanked open and Greg Lestrade dropped down into the seat beside him._

 

‘Gregory, what do you think you are doing?’

 

‘I think it’s time we had a talk. Don’t you?’

 

#

 

The car was already moving and there was no where for Mycroft to go. He focused his gaze directly ahead, hyper aware of the other man beside him. Gregory was so close that Mycroft could smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body, but he didn't dare look at him. The policeman was filled with a nervous energy and at the very corner of his vision Mycroft could see the restless jiggling of his foot.

 

When the car stopped outside the Mayfair house Gregory didn't even wait for the engine to stop before he was out the door and heading for the house.

 

David looked uneasy, unsure what to do, even after Gregory's shouted dismissal. Stealing himself Mycroft stood to follow the policeman, not sure if he had any other option. But as he got closer to the house he got angry. But the time he reached the door he was filled with a simmering rage.

 

‘What do you think you are doing?’ he demanded, dropping his coat and laptop bag on the floor, something he would never do if he was in a normal mood.

 

Gregory responded by reaching past Mycroft and slamming the door, pushing Mycroft back against it.

 

‘Like I said, we need to talk.’

 

‘About?’

 

‘This!’ Gregory hissed, ‘What is this?’

 

Gregory was pressed against him now, his body lined up with Mycroft's in a way that was painfully familiar and made Mycroft's chest ache. He balled his fists to stop himself reaching out to take hold of Gregory. They'd been in this position before, pressed hard against doors and walls, hands tearing at clothes, eyes dark with passion and names just a gasp. But he couldn't look at Gregory now, didn't trust himself to look at the other man, frightened of what he would see in his eyes.

 

‘The other night?’ Greg said, but Mycroft couldn't respond, ‘Mycroft?’ He asked, and then softer, ‘Myc?’

 

If Mycroft hand't been held in place against the door he might have fallen. No one called him that. Only Gregory. It was a name that was shouted up the stairs in the mornings demanding to know how many eggs he wanted with breakfast, a name that was giggled during a playfight involving all the cushions on the sofa. It was a name that was whispered in the dark at night when Gregory moved inside him, holding him close.

 

It was a name he didn't think he would ever hear again.

 

Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at Greg again, ‘Gregory...’ he began but couldn’t seem to say anything else, and seeing the man so unguarded was heartbreaking.

 

‘Did it mean anything to you?’

 

Mycroft didn’t answer, how could he ever answer that question. Gregory was too close now, he could feel the beat of Gregory's heart against his chest, feel his breath on his skin.

 

‘Because it did for me.' Gregory lowered his voice, 'It made me realise a few things.’

 

‘L-like what?’ the politician’s voice cracked slightly.

 

A voice that was begging the policeman not to hurt him.

 

Gregory’s lips were brushing against Mycroft’s earlobe, ‘How are you doing this?’

 

‘What?’ Mycroft’s response was barely more than a breath against Gregory’s shoulder.

 

‘How are you making me fall for you?’

 

Mycroft turned then to look at Gregory. Those brown eyes he loved so much were focused on his face, creased at the corners with age and emotion, searching for an answer Mycroft didn't know if he had.

 

That face he knew so well, that face which smiled at him with that sudden, bright grin, or frowned at him when he was thinking about work during dinner. That face he woke up beside, sometimes smiling at him as daylight crept into the room, and sometimes open and unguarded as it's owner slept, an arm thrown above his head, mouth slightly open and sheets tangled around his legs.

 

That was the face he loved most in the world.

 

And Mycroft couldn't lie to it any more. He let the mask he wore every day fall away , and he watched the exact moment Gregory realised the truth.

 

A warm hand reached up and stroked Mycroft's face, tracing his cheekbone and then sliding around to the back of his neck before Gregory closed the small space between them and kissed Mycroft so softly that Mycroft could almost believe it wasn't real. Mycroft had no shame at all in the sound he made in response, a desperate sob that he'd been trying to contain for months, his hands fisted in Gregory's clothes, pulling him tighter as the policeman kissed along his jawline and down his neck before whispering against his skin.

 

'Take me to bed.'

 


End file.
